The Mythos of the Anti-Magic

He was found wandering in the wilderness. His parents were unknown, but he must have had caretakers. No toddler would survive so long in the Evernight without them.

They searched for days, trying to find any sign of family or guardians, but there was none. The tribe took the young one in, adopting it as one of their own. “The Evernight has given us the child, and so we will keep it,” they said, “Just as we keep all things that are given.”

In days future, they would question that decision, but what else could they do in the face of such a needing waif? Return him to the dark and cold to succumb to the dangers and starvation? No, even the most heartless among them would have been unable to fulfill such a task.

Perhaps, some of them thought, this was a creature of the Evernight. One of the rare occurrences of a long-lost people reappearing. Perhaps the child was sent for a reason.

His identity and history were hid from him. He was raised with the other children, and for a time, his existence blended perfectly with all others. The questions and looks stopped. He was one of them, and that was sufficient.

But time does not hide all things. In fact, here, time revealed all.

As was the custom, the children were tested for magical capability. If any were adept in such a way, it was necessary for the clan and tribe to know. This, they knew, was the way to protect themselves best. Find the magicians and wizards young, and train them up from the start.

The selection method was simple. One adult tester held the end of a long metal rod, while the child held the other. A bead of magic would travel, and if the child was able to absorb or hold the bead, they would be judged an adept in portion to the size of their bead.

Nearly all had some magical ability, especially within this clan. Family blood ran deep into the Evernight, after all. On the rare chance that a child was found without any ability, they would be relegated to tasks that could not be performed by magic. Someone had to do the dirty work, after all.

But when this foundling waif held the bar for the first time, something unusual happened. The bead of magic, trickling slowly toward him, paused. The tester forced it forward, and as it approached, it vanished.

All the magicians and wizards stared in shock. A murmur rose up among them. “Did he absorb it? Did he absorb all of it?”

The answer was revealed as they tried again. Once more, as the bead grew closer, it struggled through an invisible wall and promptly disappeared.

This child, his origins unknown, filled with confusion and shame, was not magical. In fact, everything about him, it seemed, was oppositionally opposed to magic. And so he was branded as such.

The Anti-Magic.

The boy’s life was upended. He was removed from his parents to be tested more thoroughly. Perhaps it was a charm, or a glyph? But no such machination was found.

Perhaps only specific kinds of magic worked – but if there were such stipulations, they were never discovered. In all ways, impossibly, his very nature negated any magical forces around it.

He was returned to his adoptive parents, but not before they revealed his past to him.

“Foundling. Child of the Evernight. Unknown creature.”

“Anti-Magic.”

All these words and more were piled on his head daily. Even his own parents, who had known and loved him for all his memory, seemed distant and uncertain how to interact with him. Questions of safety were raised. If a vehicle operated on magic, would he be able to be in it? What if it failed while it was going because he got too close to the motivator?

Unbeknownst to him, his parents fought for him tooth and nail. Their seeming distance was the constant fight for him to be included within a society that was built opposite his nature.

His friends defended him, playing games that didn’t require magic to make sure he was likewise included. At the same time, they passed what they were learning about magic onto him, so he would never feel left behind as they progressed in their studies.

This continued right up until the Calamity.

A wave of destruction was tearing for the village. Survivors and refugees passed through, warning against remaining where they were. They told stories of a creature who had stolen magical powers for itself, but had grown unstable. Now, it ruined the land. The strongest magicians and wizards were impotent against it – all that could be done was to run.

A portal was opened, and the town was evacuated. All except for the Anti-Magic.

It was not malicious, how his friends and family left him behind. In the rush, they just forgot that he was unable to use a magical doorway.

Alone, now, the boy turned to face his fate. Years of being surrounded by hate and vitriol had left him hardened, and he decided to face down the beast. Perhaps, he thought, a creature of magic would be unable to kill him, the one who could handle none.

And if it did take him? Then the scholars and elders would have their answer.

He went and found a sword – one of the last remaining swords in the village, for the elders and warriors had taken all theirs with them. 

What he did not know was that the sword had been developed in study of him. Its maker, a craftsman, had seen potential in creating anti-magic weaponry. Try as he might, he could not get it to work. However, he had forgotten the fundamental property of magic: all energy, no matter what, needed a motivator.

As the boy lifted the sword, it responded to the null state of his nature. And as the Calamity neared the village, the sword began to glow in response to the concentration of magical energy.

That was the scene the Calamity found as he came into the deserted village. A lone boy, his voice cracking and his eyes angry, holding a sword that looked like an ember. He stood in the middle of an empty street, waiting for the creature to approach.

It was a rolling cloud of energy, claws and teeth flickering in and out of existence throughout it. Lightning of all colors boiled deep within, a sparkler display of ravenous energy. It overshadowed the boy, the street, and the entire village.

“A dreamer awaits,” the Calamity said, staring at the lowered brow of the foundling child. “I shall put you to sleep, like so many before you.”

The boy said nothing, merely stood still as a head the Calamity descended, jaw gaping, to devour him. As it approached, he raised the sword, his face set hard. Then, with a cry of anger, the boy plunged the sword into the gullet of the descending monster.

The head of the creature spun out of existence around him, dissipating into the ground. Shocked, for it had never been injured before, the Calamity pulled back slightly. The boy still remained, his sword over his head and the same terrible expression. “I’m no dreamer,” the boy said savagely, for he now knew the power held in his blood. “I’m your nightmare.”

The Calamity screamed and attacked, but no matter what it did, the boy withstood. The battled for hours, or perhaps days. Time had no meaning between them. For the first time, the creature of the Calamity knew fear. The overwhelming, inescapable presence of acknowledging that which could kill you, and the indisputable fact that there is nothing you can do about it.

It fell back, past the border of the village, licking its wounds and staring in horror at the child before it. “What are you?” it demanded. In all its rampage, nothing had even come close to wounding it, let alone defeating it.

The boy looked up with those savage eyes, now filled with an object to hate. “I am the Anti-Magic,” he said. Then, heedless of the danger, he charged into the depths of the Calamity.

The battle was not won that day. The Calamity retreated, deep into the Evernight.

But something was sparked. A fire grew inside the chest of the boy, and he found he could not stay knowing that the Calamity was in the world. Beyond this, he knew he was perhaps the only one who could stop it. So, when the villagers cautiously returned, they found the town empty. Their supplies had been raided, and their equipment was now in the hands of a young boy, bent on pursuing and destroying that which could not be injured.

By the time he returned, it was not the same angry boy. He had grown, and seen more of the world than most who lived in the village. He was taller, broader and wiser. He had seen the Calamity’s destruction and, through blood and sweat, had ended it.

It had been years that he had been gone. Those children who had been his friends were now stepping into positions of leadership. His mother was gone, his father weary and bent. The village was growing and changing as the surrounding towns began to form alliances. A king had been named, and in exchange for his protection, the villages swore fealty. But, they had heard, there was war on the horizon. In similar fashion, other city-states were growing. Territory that had long laid unclaimed because of the Calamity now became the place of border disputes.

Childhood friends, now fledgling officers in the military, came to the Anti-Magic, begging for his help in the coming war. “With you beside us,” they said, “Our land is sure to be protected. Our people will be safe.”

Even as weary as he was, he agreed. He and his sword, Calamity’s End, were known throughout the land. The man who magic could not touch – that was how the legends referred to him. In a world where societies hinged on magical protection and offensives, he was terrible thing to face.

Imagine, if you will, a bolt of energy arcing away from your hands, racing toward the enemies. You’ve sent this shot hundreds, if not millions, of times. You’ve seen the destruction caused, and know that there is no magical defense.

As it begins to approach the army, it dissipates. You see a glowing sword, and a face that looks like it’s made of steel. The bolt is not absorbed. It is not redirected into another platoon. It is just gone, vanished like the mists of the night struck by the sun.

And you, like the Calamity, feel terror.

Some battles were surrendered by the mere realization that he would face them. Should the opposing forces attempt to kill him through natural, non-magical means, the wizards that surrounded him would kill them. Should a mage attend to the duty, he would kill them with impunity.

Their king grew powerful and greedy. No longer was he protecting borders or sacred land; he strove to end other kingdoms. And now, the true horror was war was seen. Villages, homes and livelihoods were pillaged, raped and left in destruction as the army moved on.

Here, now, the Anti-Magic took a new stand. He had joined in the belief and hope that he was protecting and serving the people well. But now, staring at the destruction that had been left in his wake, he realized what he had become.

He, the protector, had become the destroyer. He, Calamity’s End, had in turn become the Calamity for these villages he marched through.

And so, on the eve of a deciding battle, he withdrew his sword from the armory and left the camp. He did not stop walking, even as he heard the screams of battle echo from behind him.

He heard the cries of desperation and sound of retreat. He heard the shouts as his army was brought down.

He forced himself not to linger in the sound or let it weigh upon him. They had made the decision to fight, just as he had to abstain. Victory was never certain, but with the Anti-Magic in their midst, they had felt invincible.

The defeat was a reverberating call for the kingdom. In shock and reeling to pick up the pieces, the king put a bounty on the head of his greatest asset. Once a hero, he was now branded a villain, forced to run for his life. Those who protected him paid for it.

These were the hard days. An offer stood, tantalizing in its ease. Return to the army. Fight in the war. Then all the hardship will cease. No one will seek your blood.

But a promise to himself rang deeper still. Do not seek harm unjustly. Do not give yourself blindly to the thrall of power-hungry men. A gift calls for stewardship and care, not indiscriminate use. Stand for what is right, not just what it easy.

And so he ran, hiding from the very ones who used to honor and adore him. Once again, he wandered the Evernight, looking for purpose and meaning.

He found it in assisting the powerless. There were monsters in the mists, monsters that would take and kill. It was in their nature to do so – but it was in his nature to guard and protect. If there was no other solution, he would bring about the end of the creature, but only with the deepest sorrow and wholehearted apology.

Here, in villages smaller than his own, he survived. Stories of his presence passed from person to person, eventually reaching the king who sought his blood. The war was over, but the crime that the Anti-Magic had committed still hung over the king’s head.

A military platoon was deployed to retrieve him, searching villages until they came to the right one. He was no longer dressed in military finery, but common cloth. The telling feature, however, was the sword that hung at his side. All soldiers, regardless of the colors they marched under, recognized the shape of Calamity’s End.

As the Anti-Magic studied the platoon, he suddenly realized the cruel joke the king had played. These soldiers were his childhood friends. These where the ones who had played with him as a child, making sure he didn’t feel left out. The ones who taught him about magic when he was denied access to the classes.

These were the ones who had urged him to fight and protect their home. The ones who had begged for him to stay and fight alongside them in service of their country. These were the ones who screamed the loudest when he did not.

These were the ones who had survived. But how many more had not made it?

The Anti-Magic accepted their custody, surrendering his sword and allowing himself to be bound. These, of all men, he could not fight. A group of strangers? Perhaps he could defend himself. But this? He could not even bring himself to raise a protest.

The journey back was long, but finally, he was returned to the presence of the king who he had rejected. The ruler towered over him from his throne, his expression demanding justice and recompense for what this soldier had done.

But even as he was sentenced to execution, the Anti-Magic had a glint in his eye. It was the same spark that lit his eyes when he fought the Calamity. It was the same fire that had kept him running when he pursued the monster across the Evernight, the same steel that let him walk away from a war he knew was wrong.

He was dragged to the execution block. His hands tied by fibrous rope, facing a metal axe – nothing about this event could be linked to magic. This, the king knew, was the only way to prevent one such as the Anti-Magic from escaping.

As he was pulled onto the block, the Anti-Magic spoke. He had not said a word throughout his trial, but now he said it all. The rage that had filled him boiled out in a speech. He denounced the king and the war that had killed so many of their brothers. He roared against tyrants and oppression. He exhorted peace and unity.

He was silenced as they hit the back of his legs, forcing him to kneel. A foot pressed his back, pushing his head against the chopping block. The executioner’s axe lifted high, gleaming in the sunlight. The audience fell quiet, staring in horror.

As the axe fell, the executioner found himself flung backwards, pushed by a wizard standing near the front row. “As a soldier,” he said, pushing his way through the last of the crowd, “I was told to protect that man. I won’t see him killed now.”

The Anti-Magic forced himself up as civil war erupted around him. Very few wanted to see the Anti-Magic killed, but most were also loyal to their king and country. The fight was brief, for as they began, they realized they were raising arms against their brothers. Impassioned by the speech as they were, they found that they were unable to fight the very ones they had been called to protect.

As the dust settled and the shouting ceased, the attention returned to the execution block. But it was bare. All that remained was the shorn bonds that once held a hero and a patriot.

Away from the square, a group hurried the Anti-Magic away. As they neared the city limits, one of them produced Calamity’s End. “Take your sword,” they said, “And leave. Remove yourself from our land as far as you can, and never look back. We will always remember you, child of the Evernight. But you must live your own life now.”

He took the mount they provided and departed. As far as they knew, he never returned to the land. Legends of his presence continued to abound, but if investigated, they were found to be just rumors. Stories of his heroics continued to thrive, despite the king’s insistence that they stop.

But lest you think this is a fairytale, let me end with a warning.

Should you unjustly misuse your gift, or overstep your bounds, Calamity’s End may end you.